


High Tide, Low Ebb

by DreamingAmethystDragons



Category: Magi: The Labyrinth of Magic
Genre: Angst, Doubt, Frustration, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Modern AU, Optimistic Ending, author Ja'far, happy ending... kind of, ja'far-centric, we're all trying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-19
Updated: 2017-05-19
Packaged: 2018-11-02 13:32:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10945533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DreamingAmethystDragons/pseuds/DreamingAmethystDragons
Summary: You gather the moments you can, for the defining truth is stitched together over the course of many experiences.  Ja’far struggles with himself, but he’s not stopping yet.





	High Tide, Low Ebb

_“You seem dedicated!  Remember, it won’t be easy, but hard work pays off!”_

He _knows_ it’s not easy.  Ja’far isn’t stupid about it – hopelessly naïve and unrealistically optimistic, perhaps, but not delusional.  He knows there are a million other writers out there, all with a thousand different stories sitting on their tongues, waiting for the right flash of inspiration to let them grow.  He’s one of many, but of those many it’s been done before.

… But, maybe, that’s what’s so discouraging to him.

In the middle of January, he pushes aside his much-battered (and much-beloved) laptop and pads over the five steps it takes to reach the glass door leading to the smaller balcony level with their (only slightly larger) two-room apartment.  “Their,” referring to him and Sinbad, of course; Sinbad, with his quirk of a smile and ready laugh, with his strong arms and horrible pick-up lines at two in the morning when Ja’far can’t sleep.  Dearer than a friend – where he’d be if Sinbad hadn’t decided that they were going to be _friends_ in the middle of their junior year of high school, Ja’far didn’t know.  Doesn’t know.  In all honestly, he’d never really planned past high school.

The temperature is sitting right above freezing and Ja’far is only wearing jeans and worn long-sleeved shirt, but that doesn’t stop him from unhooking the latch and stepping outside.  The chilled air stings his arms and face; he breathes in, tipping his face back in the sunlight.  Below, the patches of untouched snow glitter between where it’s been shoved off sidewalks and roads and trampled by many booted feet.  He looks, really looks, and in the span of the transit of the battered red pickup that limps sadly by and the swoop of a blue jay below that the middle of winter is, in its way, a silly time to start a ‘new year.’  Wouldn’t it make more sense to turn the calendars when the snow sloughs away and the tiniest dewdrop buds can be seen on the branches?  To equate ‘new’ with ‘regrowth?’ 

He’s nothing new, he thinks, with something not unlike the bitter taste of dark coffee in his mouth.  Halfway through college and deeper in debt, just to parrot the same phrases said better by those who came before.  Ja’far looks down and turns his wrists over, looking at the deep scars almost covered by his sleeve save for his wrist.  Against his pale skin, they are angry, lucid marks, and he lifts his gaze before the churning in his stomach solidifies. 

His pocket vibrates, and the movement to flip it into his hand is so much by reflex he’s hardly realized what he’s done until he reads the message.  _Back in five_ , Ja’far reads – then, with the heralding second buzz, _Love you, see you soon_.

His hands curl, one clutching the case, the other digging into his arms.  He’ll stay out for four, he decides; he can’t stand to go back inside right now when the words are ashes under his skin.

xx

The white noise of the April rain is usually soothing, but beneath his blank expression Ja’far is not very calm.  He re-reads the email in front of him, even though the message underneath is clear as the divide of the horizon: _Sorry, but no thanks.  We don’t want your writing_.  And he’s gotten those messages before – every writer does – but that doesn’t help when there are bills behind him on the table and notifications for two upcoming exams ringing on his student page. 

Finally, he pushes away his computer, settling deeper into the couch.  Ja’far folds his hands in front of him and forces his gaze up and away, settling on the window.  In the evening dusk, he can’t see much save for the railing of the balcony; he hears the low and far-off throb of thunder, and his bones ache.  His phone dings: once, twice, but Ja’far stays still, with something like frost cementing his limbs.  He stares at the rain, trying to ignore the lump in his throat.

_Stop that, you idiot_ , he whispers in his mind.  _Keep going.  You’ve got to, you’ve got to –_

_Am I kidding myself_?  He digs fingers into the yielding surface of the blanket before them.  _I wanted to be a writer, but who takes that seriously?_ At work, everyone who he tells that he’s an English major exclaims, “Oh, so you want to be a teacher!”  And teaching is a good thing, but that’s – not what he wants, he’d be a _terrible_ teacher, but it’s hard enough to say “no, I want to write” and meet blank stares or the expressions of well _why do you want to do that_?  Worse are the handful of coworkers who insist “no, you should be a teacher” – the intentions are well, he’s sure, but.

_What a stupid dream_.

He traces the scar looping across his right wrist.

_Hopeless.  Those emails are all you’ll ever see_. 

He’s so lost in his own head that he doesn’t hear the bathroom door open, doesn’t hear the gentle sounds of the kitchenette until someone’s hovering a cup of tea in front of his nose.  He jerks, but when he meets Sinbad’s eyes they are gentle and warm – not pitying, he hopes, but he can’t tell.  Doesn’t want to look closer.

Sin doesn’t say anything, but circles around the couch so he can lean next to Ja’far.  Ja’far leans back, wrapping cold fingers against the stinging mug.  Thunder rolls again outside.

“Let’s watch a movie,” his partner finally suggests, rustling the bag of chips he brought over, and Ja’far reaches out to close his laptop and settle more carefully into the one-armed embrace Sinbad offers. 

_… For him.  Keep trying._

xx

The door has barely swung shut and Ja’far is already shedding his work uniform, tossing his apron over a chair and leaving his shoes in a pile by the doorway in his haste to get inside.  It had been a quiet day in the restaurant, quiet enough that Ja’far had time to mull over the latest song that he’d grown to love (thanks to Sinbad) and the idea that had been bubbling in the back of his brain for a while now.  In the five-minute walk home in the warmth of a July night things finally clicked, and he’d practically ran home to get to the computer before the motivation ebbed.

Time, motivation, ideas.  When two of three were there, well, he’s not going to complain; time, he’ll make more of.

He kicks off his work pants but leaves his shirt on before he sits down and flips the computer open.  For once, the words are flowing and he immerses himself; and here, he remembers why he writes – for the joy of an idea, for the flow of words rolling like stars though his mind and fingers, for the spark when just the _phrase_ you _need_ is the one you find to fit.  His hands fly, and for once they don’t ache. 

Sinbad arrives home some twenty minutes later, and Ja’far mumbles a “hello” as he re-reads the last paragraph.  He registers Sinbad’s chuckle, and hums when a kiss is planted to the crown of his head, but otherwise he is rather unresponsive to the world at large. 

Finally, he looks up when Sinbad sprawls over the back of the couch behind him in a clear gambit for attention.  He blinks, then smiles sheepishly.  “Sorry… had an idea.”

Sinbad hums back, fingers smoothing out a snag in his hair.  “Don’t worry, I know how you get.”  The words are light and teasing.  “Are you back to the land of the living yet, or do you want some more space?  Judging from your state of dress, you haven’t eaten – not that I’m complaining about the view, but I can start supper here if you want.”  Those gold eyes are both warm and appreciative.

Ja’far realizes that he’s sitting there in his nice work shirt and boxers, and he has to laugh – at himself, at them, at this whole situation.  “Eh – sorry.  Go ahead, just let me wrap this up and get dressed and I’ll help.”

“No problem, babe.”  Sinbad leans forward to press another kiss to the side of Ja’far’s face (to which Ja’far giggles quietly) before retreating to the refrigerator.  The radio clicks on with the lights, filling the space with a kind of warmth that has nothing to do with heat.

Ja’far does type for a few minutes longer, but it’s no use; after his mind turned to other things the words come more slowly, and the inspiration has clearly left.  He cracks his fingers and glances out the door, before saving the file and shifting off the couch.  On his route to the bathroom, he pauses – then, on impulse, he steps behind Sinbad (who is sautéing something delicious-smelling at the stove) and wraps his arms around Sin’s middle.  “Love you,” he murmurs quietly, re-embedding his thought in the _now_ – in the cold tile beneath his feet, the hum of the appliances, the expansion of Sin’s chest as he breathes.  “Thank you.”

“Love you too, babe,” Sinbad replies.  Ja’far presses a kiss to his shoulder and leaves, feeling lighter than he has in a while.

xx

This October has been unseasonably warm, and one night Sinbad stops to pick up some liquor and Ja’far pulls two plastic chairs out to the balcony so they can sit outside and enjoy the evening before it’s too cold for such things.  Sinbad brings out some hard lemonade for Ja’far and a beer for himself as Ja’far reclines, watching the round moon balance just over the horizon.  He accepts it with a murmur of thanks and they sit in a comfortable silence, watching a couple cross the street below.

“Hey, Ja,” Sinbad says suddenly after a few minutes.  Ja’far rolls his head over, wiping a bead of condensation off his bottle.  Sinbad’s eyes are brighter than any star, and after a moment of staring Ja’far takes another swig, nodding for the other to continue.  “I’m proud of you.”

Ja’far raises his eyebrows at that, but it takes him a moment more to reply.  “What for?”  He hasn’t done anything noteworthy lately – just the same old routine of work, Sinbad, school, writing, Sinbad, and the occasional date.  His grades have remained good, but that’s about it.

“For – well, for a lot.”  Sinbad gestures expansively with his bottle before taking another swig.  “But right now, I mean… for doing you.  Going to school.  Writing.  It’s more than I’ve done.”

“I thought you were happy with where you are.”  It’s a statement, not a question – Ja’far knows that Sinbad seems to love his job as a barista, judging from the stories he always has of the people he’s met and the going-ons of his coworkers. 

“I mean – I do, and I am, but this is about you.  I know you struggle sometimes with it,” he continues, eyes not on Ja’far but distant, “But, I just wanted you to know that I’m proud of what you’ve done, and I know you can keep doing it.”

He tries to blame the burning in his throat on the alcohol.  Ja’far knows it’s not easy – the declines, the bad days, the days where the words _just won’t come_.  Doubting comes easy, but – “You’ve helped,” he admits, voice quiet as though wary of eavesdroppers.  “You know when to be there, or – or when to kick my ass when I’ve needed it.”  God knows he’s needed it sometimes. 

“Hey, what are partners for?”  Sinbad flashes that hook of a smile that Ja’far has come to love so, swinging the bottle up in a toast.  “Just, babe?  Keep going.  I’ll be there to cheer you on.  I’m your biggest fan, you know?”

“You’re _biased_.” Ja’far grumbles, but.  It’s not easy.  It never will be.  But the moon is bright and full and the breeze that touches his face is soft, and Sinbad’s hand curls easily into his.  He looks up and picks out the brightest three stars, then laughs, for life works in funny ways and validation is found in cups of coffee, on sidewalks and under umbrellas, in bruised fingers and the press of bodies in the timeless hours after midnight.  It’s not much, not a complete answer –

But it’s something, and enough to live by. 

**Author's Note:**

> Cross-posted on my tumblr account a little while back.  
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
